


Ever Get Over You

by thevictorinox



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Love Letters, M/M, life after death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-01
Updated: 2012-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 11:02:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thevictorinox/pseuds/thevictorinox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"From time to time, reminders of Mycroft would surprise him, a set of his cuff links left in the pocket of a suit Greg hadn't worn for a while, the familiar black umbrella resting against the passenger's seat in his car, a sonata on the stereo in the midst of punk tracks, the plain gold band on his finger."</p><p>Inspired by the song "I don't think I'll ever get over you" by Collin Hay</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ever Get Over You

 The smell of coffee pulled Greg's eyes away from the blurry haze that was staring off into space. He turned his head towards the source, Anthea wearing an apologetic smile that seemed to be a permanent fixture upon her features these days. Greg wondered how much longer it would be until it faded or she left his service. It had been about three years since Mycroft's absence had began, and Anthea hadn't left Greg's side since, he wondered if it was because she didn't know what purpose she served without Mycroft, or maybe it was her own coping mechanism. Regardless, they both knew they were poor substitutes for what the other lost.

He took the coffee grateful for it's distraction, patting the arm of the chair beside his own, but she shook her head, another apologetic smile. Greg nodded and she left. He watched her as she went, she was in her fifties now, time had been so kind to her, she had slipped into age beautifully. The few lines she had on her face only complimented her features, and she had yet to grey aside from a thin streak at her temple. Nearly three decades had gone by and she was still lovely. Nearly three decades he had known her, and only the last years were without Mycroft.

It had been a painful few years. An absence that had started as a twist of a sharp knife now worn into a dull ache worrying at his heart every so often. Mycroft's passing was not sudden, but a gradual fade from illness, his life leaving in a room of their house, Greg refused to set foot into again. A room in their house that hadn't been theirs since he left. After three years however, Greg had settled into the life of a widower. Mostly solitary, aside from Anthea's occasional appearance. He had been retired for twenty years, so he rarely visited with old co-workers from the yard. Sherlock and John had been the only constant in his life, a standing visit to the country pub in the village-over.Otherwise, it was the quiet stillness being the only person in a room.

From time to time, reminders of Mycroft's life would surprise him, a set of his cuff links left in the pocket of a suit Greg hadn't worn for a while, the familiar black umbrella resting against the passenger's seat in his car, a sonata on the stereo in the midst of punk tracks, the plain gold band on his finger.

Today was yet another, Greg had decided to read On the Road by Jack Kerouac. It was a pristine first-edition copy that Mycroft had given him for his sixty-fourth birthday. He pulled the book from the mahogany shelves built into the walls. His novel was nestled amongst all of the world's great literary classics, which they were finally able to read in their retirement. He settled back into his chair and opened the volume, the pages parted to one point, and tucked between them, pressed into the divide of the binding, was a neatly folded piece of paper. Greg’s hands shook as he unfolded the paper and smoothed it open to read. Mycroft’s neat scrawl, enveloped the page. The date in the corner put the letter a few months before his death.

_  
_

_Gregory,_

_I hope this finds you when it is most needed. Do not think of it as a farewell that did not reach you sooner, it was meant to be found in it’s own time. It is an admission, and, if you need, consent. Though I have loved you for these years, I do not wish for you to stop living simply because I cannot be by your side. I wish nothing more than to remain in that very place as it has brought so much happiness to me. I have loved you from the moment I met you, even if it was not apparent to me right away. I have loved you across time zones, and continents. I have loved you from afar and while you sat right beside me. This is all horribly sentimental, but none-the-less, utterly true. But despite all my love for you, I do not wish you to succumb to your grief, to shut yourself away from the world around you. I don’t wish you to be unhappy. So please, for me, move on._

_I love you,_

_Mycroft_

 

Greg set the letter down, reaching up to wipe away the wetness on his cheek with his fingers. It took a few minutes before he collected himself, a few breaths, to process what Mycroft had written.

 

“Oh My, I could live til’ I’m a hundred, but I don’t think I’ll ever get over you.”


End file.
